I just… I can’t sleep. It’s 2 AM and my phone is at 17% and I’m sitting in the dark and I just need to get this out. Before I forget the exact feeling of it. Before it gets buried under another diaper change or another load of laundry. My kid is finally asleep, thank god. He just cried for an hour straight because he didn’t want the blue cup, he wanted the red cup, and I swear to god I almost threw the blue cup out the window. Just… everything. It’s been building for weeks, months even. Ever since he was born. I’m home all day. Every day. It’s just me and him. My husband works a lot. Like, a lot a lot. So it’s just me and the baby. And I love him. I do. He’s my whole world. But I also feel like I’m disappearing. Like the old me, the one who had friends and went to classes and had thoughts that weren’t about formula or nap schedules, she’s just… gone. And I feel like a terrible person for even thinking that. For wanting more. For wanting… anything else. And then today. At church. We actually made it out the door on time, which is a miracle in itself. I even managed to get a shower. A quick one, but still. We’re sitting there, in the back, because that’s where we always sit now. Near the door for a quick escape if he starts screaming. And Mrs. Henderson, she’s 78, her hair is always perfectly done, she stands up during announcements. She’s been going to that church since it was built, I swear. She suggests a hymn. “How Great Thou Art,” she said, her voice a little shaky but clear. It’s a classic. Everyone loves that one. My grandma used to sing it. And the music director. Mr. Davies. He’s younger, maybe early 30s. He’s always got this kind of smug look, like he knows everything about music that nobody else does. He’s got his fancy little iPad thing for the music. And he just… he did this little hand gesture. Like, a quick, flicking motion of his wrist. Like he was brushing away a fly. Or something annoying. Right at her. Right after she said the hymn. Didn’t even look at her. Just this dismissive flick. And a barely audible sigh. I saw it. I couldn’t unsee it. And it was like… a punch to the gut. She just sat down, really slowly. And she didn’t say anything else. And I wanted to scream. I wanted to stand up and shout, “HEY! She’s 78 years old! She’s been coming here longer than you’ve been alive! She just wanted to hear a hymn!” But I didn’t. Because I’m a mom now. I’m supposed to be calm. I’m supposed to be quiet. I’m supposed to just… sit there. But it just hit me so hard. Because it’s exactly how I feel sometimes. Like I’m just a bother. Like my suggestions, my thoughts, my wants, they’re all just these little annoying flies to be brushed away. My husband, bless his heart, he tries. But when I tell him I’m exhausted, or that I wish I could just go to the grocery store alone, he just kind of… pats my arm. And says, “It’ll get easier, honey.” And it’s the same gesture. That same dismissive, “Just get over it” vibe. And I know he doesn’t mean it that way. I know Mr. Davies probably didn’t mean to be mean to Mrs. Henderson. But it just… it felt like everything. Like my entire life is just one long flick of the wrist. One long sigh. Like what I want doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter. Not anymore. Not since I became ‘Mom.’ I’m just the person who takes care of things. The person who suggests a hymn and gets flicked away. I still feel it. That knot in my stomach. The way my chest feels tight. It’s not about the hymn. It’s not about Mrs. Henderson. It’s about being invisible. It’s about feeling like a burden. It’s about wanting to be seen again. To be heard. Even just for a second. Before I have to wake up and do it all again. And I just don’t know how much more I have left. I really don’t.